


Genuflect

by toli-a (togina)



Category: Justified
Genre: Episode: s01e01 Pilot, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 15:32:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16956657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/togina/pseuds/toli-a
Summary: Raylan returns to Harlan, finds himself ravished by a beautiful woman, goes to church and finds himself on his knees.





	Genuflect

**Author's Note:**

> This sprung from someone on tumblr asking for a time that Raylan and Boyd hooked up off-screen while still being canon compliant. Which is a fantastic prompt, and there are so many options. Which means, of course, that instead of availing myself of those many options, I wrote something that _isn't_ canon compliant, but if you squint a little and imagine we missed some of the scene of their first meeting in the church, it almost could be.

Raylan returns to Harlan, finds himself ravished by a beautiful woman, goes to church and finds himself on his knees. He hasn’t felt the weight of Boyd’s cock in his mouth in near twenty years. This time around Boyd doesn’t smell like firedamp, though he does still smell faintly of Emulex and gunpowder. Raylan’s out of practice at this, but he twists his hands behind his back and opens his mouth wide and lets Boyd weave his tattooed fingers through Raylan’s hair.

Boyd cradles Raylan’s head like Raylan’s the statue set above the altar, runs his finger along the curve of Raylan’s mouth where it’s stretched around Boyd’s cock and gasps when Raylan tests out long-decayed skills and swallows Boyd down.

Raylan hasn’t gone to his knees for a man since he was nineteen years old. His knees ache from the church’s wooden floors and his jaw aches from the unfamiliar strain and he’s dug his fingernails so deeply into his palms that he’s sure he’s drawn blood. He tips his head up, a little, finds Boyd gazing down on him with his lips parted in astonishment. He always was surprised to learn what lengths Raylan was willing to go for him, what sins Raylan would commit in Boyd’s name. Boyd’s eyes are dark with lust, bright with something like awe. His callused fingertips slip reverently along the hollows of Raylan’s cheeks, the lines at the corners of his eyes, the stubble on his jaw. Boyd curls his hands in Raylan’s hair and thrusts and gapes in astonished pleasure when Raylan takes that, too.

Raylan closes his eyes and focuses on the thickness of Boyd’s cock in his mouth, the taste on his tongue, the saliva running down his chin. He focuses on the feel of Boyd’s fingers pressed against Raylan’s head, pushing him further, always testing how far Raylan’s willing to go. He focuses on the way Boyd’s hands tug at his hair. He opens his eyes and focuses on Boyd’s face, sees himself reflected in Boyd’s gaze, a man on his knees. A nineteen-year-old boy with bruises on his ribs, with miner’s calluses and impossible dreams.

“Raylan,” Boyd murmurs, and Raylan swallows when Boyd comes, hums in displeasure when Boyd slips his cock out of Raylan’s mouth and tucks himself away. He lets Boyd curl over him, for a moment, lets Boyd bend at the waist so he can press his face into Raylan’s hair, run his hands over Raylan’s shoulders and down his back and trap him in something like an embrace.

They were both nineteen, once. They were nineteen and Raylan had years of practice genuflecting to Boyd, but the adoration struck Boyd speechless every time. They were nineteen and foolish and living down in the deep, making wishes on stars they couldn’t see.

“Are you coming to the courthouse tomorrow?” Raylan’s raspy voice shatters the hallowed silence. He pushes away from Boyd, comes smoothly back to his feet. Boyd’s still holding his hands out in front of him, fingers curled around nothing but air.

“And if I don’t?” Boyd wonders, his voice as hoarse as Raylan’s, his gaze still on the line of Raylan’s mouth. “What’ll you do then, Raylan?”

Raylan smiles, and Boyd watches his lips curve. “I suppose you’ll find out then,” he says, feels Boyd’s hands in his hair, pushing, always pushing to see just how much Raylan will take.

He picks his hat up, dusts it off, and rests it back on his head. Touches the brim of it and nods at Boyd. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Boyd,” he says, and heads for the door.

Boyd watches him go. Raylan knows the weight of Boyd’s gaze like the weight of his gun in its holster, knows it from across a classroom or across the field at a game or across a fresh cut in the mines. Boyd’s watched Raylan leave before.

Raylan’s knees ache and his jaw aches and he waves once at the church and climbs into his car. He’ll see Boyd tomorrow, one way or another. And Boyd will find out how far Raylan’s willing to go.

* * *

Between one breath and the next, Raylan slips to his knees, smooth as if he’d been doing it for years. Maybe he has been. It’s been twenty years, and maybe – but Boyd can’t think about that, can’t think about Raylan with his knees spread apart and his hands clasped behind  his back for anyone else, can’t imagine Raylan leaning forward to press his lips to the zipper of another man’s jeans.

Boyd fumbles his jeans open, fingers clumsy on the buckle like he hasn’t been buckling his own belt since he was six. Boyd’s dreamed this moment enough times in his life that he cradles Raylan’s chin without thinking, tips Raylan’s head back and presses a thumb to Raylan’s bottom lip and tugs Raylan’s mouth open until it’s a round, perfect ‘o’. And oh, Boyd’s dreamed about this for decades, but he’s never imagined Raylan any older than nineteen, never imagined him at thirty-nine, never saw Raylan with gray in his brown hair and lines at the corners of his eyes, never pictured Raylan with the last of his childhood sloughed away and nothing left but planes of muscle and hard lines.

Raylan’s all angles and harsh, unforgiving edges—hard as the metal on his badge, steel like the bullets in his gun—but his lip is soft where Boyd’s thumb presses Raylan’s mouth into a gentle curve. His hair is as soft as Boyd remembers, corn silk under his fingers when he threads them through Raylan’s graying hair.

When they were teenagers – when they were teenagers, it was Raylan who dropped to his knees that first time, fluid as he was sliding into a home run, dropped to his knees and tipped his head back and parted his lips and said, “Well?” and shook Boyd down to his cornerstones. Raylan razed Boyd’s world to its foundations, and Boyd built an altar upon them to worship at the feet of his newfound god.

Raylan at thirty-nine is even more miraculous than Raylan at seventeen. Raylan stretches his mouth wide around Boyd’s cock and his teeth catch a little and Boyd struggles not to come right then, to spend with his cock still in his hand and watch his semen stain Raylan’s thin lips, his cheeks, his chin. Boyd never could resist profaning his own gods.

Boyd tugs on Raylan’s hair, astonished when Raylan allows it, when Raylan doesn’t do anything but let his eyes flutter closed and widen his mouth. Raylan lets Boyd push his cock down Raylan’s throat and Boyd thinks of the gun on Raylan’s hip, still snapped into its holster. He wonders what it would take to make Raylan draw.

Raylan gazes up at Boyd and Boyd knows he’s gaping down at Raylan, tracing the curve of Raylan’s lips around Boyd’s cock, tracing the saliva where it slides from Raylan’s open mouth. Boyd holds his breath, afraid to exhale and awake from this blissful repose. Boyd held his breath all through high school, afraid to wake up and find the altar cold and Raylan gone.

Raylan chokes a little, eyes watering, and Boyd lets himself breathe. Thrusts into Raylan’s mouth, to see if maybe he can make him choke once more. Thrusts a little harder, to see if Raylan will pull away and reach for his gun.

Raylan never does reach for his gun. He tips his head back and watches Boyd, eyes bright and mouth soft, every bit as marvelous as he’d been at nineteen. He takes all of Boyd. He always has, swallowed all Boyd’s offerings and left nothing but ashes behind.

Boyd has to pull away, after a moment. Raylan’s always been too much for Boyd to take, though it’s never stopped Boyd from trying to hold on. He buries his face in Raylan’s hair, in the unfamiliar scent of it, in the unfamiliar gray strands of it. He genuflects at the altar of his god.

Raylan stands it for a minute or so, no more. He comes to his feet, scoops up his hat, rests his hand on the metal of his gun. Raylan at thirty-nine is all hard lines and brushed steel, and Boyd presses just to see how much Raylan will take.

He used to pull Raylan off his knees, in high school. He used to sweep out his arms and bare his teeth and see how far he could push before Raylan snapped back. He used to know exactly how many pounds of pressure rested on Raylan’s trigger. He never could believe it, the times he’d push and press and prod and Raylan would sink back onto his knees, strip himself bare and let Boyd pour adulation like perfume over his dusty feet.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Boyd,” Raylan says, and walks out the door, leaves the church nothing but a hollowed temple in his wake. He walks out and leaves Boyd burnt to ashes, desperate for a flame.

Raylan pauses at his car, lifts his hand to wave. Boyd wants to prostrate himself before him. Boyd wants to force Raylan’s mouth wide, wants to press him open and leave bruises like bullet wounds down Raylan’s chest. He wants to see how many pounds of pressure it takes before Raylan draws his gun.

Boyd holds his breath and bows his head and prays he won’t wake up before tomorrow comes.


End file.
